Send Out The Clowns (Frank River Series) (9 page)

Gerry closed her phone and glanced toward the lab techs as
they swept the area. This had been a self-imposed test for her to evaluate her
aptitude as a homicide detective. She gave herself a passing grade. During her
initial view of the murder scene, her heart had been ice; no nausea, no panic
or sentimentality, no emotion at all - ice. Maybe she had put too much emphasis
on this event. She had witnessed violence before and had no illusions about
mankind's ability to heap burning coals on the heads of their fellows. She'd
witnessed such behavior since birth; which, no doubt, explained what brought
her to this moment.

Her sociology professors and textbooks made much to-do about
ethnicity and crime, categorizing Black on Black, Black on White and the like,
while analyzing the problem and suggesting solutions. She had welcomed her
assignment to the vice squad, throwing herself into the work with enthusiasm,
in the belief that proper law enforcement would make a difference, that her
dedication and training would reduce the inequities of the victims. The reality
on the street had been an acid test.

She concluded that with few exceptions, motivation for
inhumanity came more from opportunity than sophisticated sociological concerns.
Perpetrators and victims came from all ethnic backgrounds and every economic
class. She'd seen pushers and pimps steal pride and dignity from others;
embezzlers and blackmailers ruin lives for the sake of money, or simply raw
power, and regardless of dedicated law enforcement, hordes of such predators
emerged faster than they could be prosecuted. Ethnicity wasn't the common
denominator. Arrogance was, and the justification owed more to greed and lack
of self worth than any other cause. Roger Harrington had summed it up in much
simpler terms. She remembered him saying, "All the psycho-babble aside,
what it boils down to is, there's a lot more horses' asses than there are horses."

She remembered reading somewhere that human beings only
needed three things to be successful in life, to love, to be loved and to have
a feeling of self worth. She had been loved. Her mother and grandmother had
loved her as intensely as possible, and in so doing, had instilled her with a
feeling of self worth. She had yet to find romantic love. Maybe it would come
with Roger Harrington. He was attentive and she admired him, but what barriers
existed for them from the fact they were both cops? More precisely, what
barriers had she constructed to block her from finding a partner who could live
up to her expectations?

She wondered if the corpse lying in the outline of chalk had
been loved. Gerry had definite opinions about the victim's sense of self. She shuddered.
"What a hell of a way to check out," she whispered to herself and to
Laurie Lowe. She glanced at the moon, a shining rock at first quarter. It
reminded Gerry of a coin being pushed through a slot, half exposed, half
concealed -someone dropping a dime. She wished someone would drop a dime on the
bastard that had the arrogance to steal a person's most precious possession,
life. Rage began to thaw her blood. She had come to homicide precisely because
she wanted to oppose these ultimate robbers, murderers who had the audacity to
end another's essence. Particularly a monster that stripped a person from
dignity even in death, dressing the body as a clown and posing it to send some
macabre message.

Al Shuman interrupted Gerry's thoughts.

"We're finished here, Detective Gardner. Did you call
Frank?"

Gerry glanced at her wristwatch. "Yeah, He should be
here in about fifteen minutes."

"Do you want to wait? I'd like to get the body to the
morgue soon."

"Give me one more minute, and if Frank isn't here by
the time I'm finished, go ahead and transport."

Shuman nodded.

Gerry walked over and knelt by the body. Full rigor was in
force, indicating the time of death at twelve to eighteen hours earlier. The
right arm was extended, palm upward as though the body had been reaching for
help at the end, indicating that the killer had watched, and posed the arm in
mockery of the victim's plight. A brightly colored ball was grasped in the
hand, a companion to other balls and equipment common to jugglers stuffed in a
gym bag beside the body.

Gerry heard the thrum of Frank's car, the opening and
closing of the door as she continued to study the victim. The sound of his
shoes on the pavement as he walked toward her, and the sense of his presence by
her side didn't break her concentration. Only when he spoke did she allow her
rising rage to be squelched.

"Ah, crap," he mumbled. "It's the
out-of-towner from last night."

"Laurie Lowe," Gerry replied.

"She got the hook for certain."

"We've got to get this bastard, Frank."

"We will."

"I'm going to enjoy bringing him down." She looked
up at her partner. "I hope it's street justice and not a day in
court."

She watched Frank hold her look, interpret her anger.

He said nothing, merely closed his eyes and nodded, before
holding out his hand to help her up.

Gerry watched as the EMT eased her aside and began
preparations to transport Laurie's remains to the morgue. She jammed her hands
into the pocket of her jacket and strolled to the patrol car with her head
bowed. Frank followed, his fists closed tight and his jaw clenched.

"Follow me," he told her when they reached the
cars. "We need some time to adjust our thoughts."

Gerry followed Frank to the Katy Freeway. When they were out
of the main traffic flow, she allowed her thoughts to drift back to her
reaction to her first official homicide, knowing that regardless of her
experience as a cop, she would never lose the image of the girl from
Albuquerque, New Mexico, posed in death in the ridiculous clown costume and
make up, staring blindly up at her with her hand raised in a symbol of
helplessness. Helplessness, the ultimate indignity. Any misery could be endured
as long as there was hope. Had Laurie ever been loved?

She remembered herself as a young girl, living with her
grandmother. So many occasions, her mother was absent from her memories because
she was out trying to earn enough money to keep food on the table and clothing
on everyone's back. Menial tasks such as cleaning offices or running a scullery
in a low-budget restaurant. It had never been steady employment, but they
always had enough to scrape by. That was before grandmother Laverne grew weak
and bowed with age. Gerry always thought about those earlier times, shunning
her teenage years when life were more difficult, or at least so it seemed. She
followed her grandmother around because Laverne always made her feel
comfortable, talking as she took care of the house. "Gotta keep this place
lookin' like a home and not a pig sty. Might not have much, but a body can take
pride in what they do have." Laverne owned three dresses, two looked so
much the same that Gerry had to look carefully to tell which was which— faded
cotton prints, which she alternated, washing one while she wore the other.
During cold weather, Laverne wore threadbare, baggy corduroy pants under the
prints and had a heavy wool sweater for the few occasions when she went
outside. The third dress was a shiny material, black with a bold, red rose
design. This was Laverne's "Sunday best," and Gerry couldn't remember
her ever wearing it except at her funeral.

During those times, when her mother Lilly came home it meant
the smell of hot chocolate and popcorn. Lilly cleaned the restrooms at a movie
theater on Richmond Avenue and would bring home a big box of popcorn. It was a
long way from Richmond to the fourth ward and the delicacy would be stone cold.
Gerry would pour it into a bowl and warm it in the oven while Laverne heated
the instant cocoa on the burner. They would all three chatter like magpies as
they waited for the temperature to be to their liking - girls all, anticipating
a party. Yes, Gerry thought, she had been loved.

Frank turned South on the 610 loop, heading for the
Galleria. Gerry decided that if she hadn't known who was driving the little car
ahead of her, she would pull the culprit over and issue a traffic ticket -
speeding and reckless driving. As she kept Frank in view, she was certain many
of the motorists thought the police car was in hot pursuit and probably
wondering why there were no flashing lights and siren.

She followed Frank when he took the Westheimer exit and
continued south on Post Oak. When he pulled into the coffee shop’s parking lot
and swerved into the first spot, she had to cruise past and turn behind the
building to find a place for the patrol car. When she pushed through the door,
Frank was sitting at a table near the window. "I've already ordered
coffee," he told her. "Do you want something else?"

Gerry shook her head.

Frank was staring at the Formica table top, leaning forward
with his arms intertwined on the table, his hands resting on his elbows. He
looked pensive. Gerry doubted he was fretting about the murder.

"Never been here before," Gerry remarked, looking
around the cafe.

"One of my favorite hangouts," Frank answered
without looking at her. "I feel comfortable here, especially after leaving
a crime scene, so I can get my thoughts in order while everything is still
fresh."

A waitress brought a carafe of coffee and two mugs.

Frank looked up, leaving his arms in place. "This is
Thelma, an old friend and good buddy."

"Don't make me too old," Thelma joked.

"Thelma, meet my new partner, Detective Geraldine
Gardner."

"Hi, Thelma. Call me Gerry."

"Pleased to meet ya, Gerry. It's good there's someone
to keep this old pirate sane." She smiled. "You two look busy. If I
can get you anything, just whistle."

"Seems nice," Gerry offered after Thelma had left.
Frank nodded. "Want to talk about the new body."

"Pisses me off. If I'd been more professional, we might
have prevented this one."

"Yeah, right. Like you shouldn't have taken a half a
day off. You've been on this round the clock since early Friday."

Frank nodded, but Gerry knew she hadn't helped him feel any
better.

"Same MO?" he asked

"Shuman indicated it's the same."

"That means we won't have any new breakthroughs from
the evidence. In the morning, the lieutenant will want an update."

"I can do that."

"Okay. Then do a workup on the new victim. Run down
anything you can. I'll go by the comedy club and interview the personnel. We'll
pool our ideas at lunch - say, Charlie's in the Village?"

"Charlie's doesn't serve anything on my menu right now.
Why not Jason's Deli?"

Frank smiled for the first time. "Good God, Gerry, what
are you trying to do? Turn me into a friggin' rabbit?"

"They've got food other than salad at Jason's."

"Okay, Jason's." He poured another cup of coffee
and looked at his watch. "It's too early to make any calls."

"Would you like to see my new digs? It's not far from
here by Houston standards."

"You got it, partner. Let's go."

Frank followed Gerry to the Heights. He locked the car and
walked to where Gerry waited for him in front of a block of townhouses, each
with different facades - rococo, Tudor, stucco and what not. He could hear the
sounds from the Katy Freeway as commuters rushed downtown to work early, before
the snarl of traffic became too heavy. The noise sounded like a waterfall far
in the distance.

The townhouse Gerry had rented sported the trim of a
Victorian Chalet white, with dark gray cornices.

"Nice place," Frank remarked.

"I like it. Not fond of the antique decorations, but
it's a good location. Not too far from headquarters or your place, and across
town from where I grew up. Come on in."

They entered into an area designated for a family room and
kitchen running from front to back. Cartons and a clutter of furniture filled
the space. "It'll look bigger when I get things where I want them,"
she added.

She led him to a narrow wooden stairway leading to the
second level and two bedrooms—one small, with a shower and cramped lavatory
area, the second spacious with a larger bathroom and a walk-in closet. There
were two doors in the hall that Frank assumed were closets. Another stairway
led to the third level that looked like a loft.

Gerry kept watching Frank scrutinize. It reminded her of his
method of investigating a crime, taking in every detail.

"Are you plotting where I should hang pictures and
place chairs, or are you expecting to find blood spots and such evidence?"

Frank smiled and looked down at the floor. "This top
floor has all sorts of possibilities. I really like the layout, and the steps
should help you work off those few pounds you've been telling me about."
His eyes changed from those of a cop to one that made her aware of her sexuality.
Frank was an attractive man. If the situation were different, she would be
moved to think of him as other than her superior law enforcement partner.

"This area is what sold me on the place. I can set it
up with different sections dedicated to my varied interests. Over there in that
dark corner, I'm going to locate my work area. You know, files and a work
table, computer and such." She turned and swept her hand toward the
window. "There, I plan to have a reading area and a ghetto blaster for
long quiet evenings at home, if there ever are such times." She turned to
the rest of the room. "I haven't decided about this area yet. What do you
think?"

"I don't know. It should be special. A place where you
can feel safe and enjoy yourself." He waited a beat as if thinking. "Do
you want some help unpacking or moving your furniture around?"

"No. Roger Harrington helped me move, and I want to do
all the arranging. It's a personal thing. Hey, it's too early to go to work and
I have a couple of chairs cleaned off on the first level. How about I make some
coffee and we chat until the sun comes up?"

Frank nodded and headed for the stairs.

While the coffee brewed, Gerry dug in a carton and found a
portable sound system and a box of tapes. She selected a CD and inserted it,
turning the volume low so it wouldn't interfere with their conversation.

"Interesting sounds," Frank remarked. "What
is it?"

"The title is 'Contrasts' by the Andean Nation. Two
guys from New Mexico, Andrew Taher and William Urena play all the instruments.
Later, in an arrangement of Ave Maria, there's a Celtic Harp played by Melissa
Henrie. I love it. It makes me think of all the civilizations other than this
hectic, power driven society we live in."

They both sat quietly for a while, enjoying the haunting
strains and technique of the artists. Gerry was the first to break the silence.

"Frank, tell me to mind my own business if you want,
but if we're going to be partners, I want to understand everything about
you."

Frank looked at her but said nothing.

"You seem distant, like you're worried about
something."

"I'm worried about getting the perp identified and
arrested before the SOB kills again."

"Yeah, there's that, but I know that mood. This is
something else."

A breathy flute sounded with the guitar, portraying the musical
vision of high foggy mountains covered with rain forests, and Indians dressed
in colorful scrapes walking slowly toward a village. Frank closed his eyes and
swayed with the rhythm—deciding.

"It's Pauley," he admitted in a barely audible
voice.

"I thought as much. She driftin'?"

Frank looked at her. "Very astute of you. Yes. Either
that or my paranoia."

"Paranoia? You don't strike me as the paranoid
type."

"Everyone has a chink in his or her confidence. Mine's
Pauley. She's never liked me being a policeman. It all came to a head a few
years ago, and we split up for over a year. When we got back together, I think
we both tried too hard. Now she has this opportunity to expand her business in
a big way, and the situation is edgy."

"Do you resent her enthusiasm for her work?"

Frank thought a moment. "I don't think so. I'm happy
for her. Like I said, I'm paranoid that she'll lose her time for me, us."

"Have you considered getting out of the job? Maybe
something else, like say, a business of your own?"

"Go to work for her is what you're saying. I've
considered several options, but I know the only way for me is being what I am.
If I did something else for the sake of the relationship, that would doom it
for certain."

"I can't speak for Pauley, but women enjoy a man who
knows when to be sensitive and when to leave them alone. If you can walk that
tight rope, maybe things will smooth out."

"I've decided all I can do is be me. If I lose her,
I'll feel like part of me is gone, but I have no intentions of reinventing
myself. That wouldn't be fair to either of us."

Gerry and Frank had just finished updating the file on the
Nguyen case and started the work on Laurie Lowe, when the phone rang. Gerry
answered. "Okay, Lieutenant. Frank's out of the office right now." She
winked at Frank. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thanks, Gerry," Frank grinned when she hung up
the phone. "I can do without Sumbitch this morning."

"I'll fill her in. See you this afternoon?"

"Right." He headed for the door.

"Hey, Frank. If you could get the information on where
Laurie Lowe spent her nights while she was in Houston, it would save me some
time."

Frank stopped with his hand on the doorknob. "I can do
that. I'll give you a call in about an hour." He winked and scooted out
the door.

Gerry went to the window and watched until Frank emerged
from the front door of the building. Rain was falling in a slant from west to
east. Her partner hurried through the wetness to a patrol car and climbed in
without looking up. When the car disappeared from the parking lot, she turned
and went back to the desk. She checked the time, patted her pocket to assure
herself she had her phone, and copied several addresses she had looked up into
her notebook before heading for Lieutenant Barker's office

Gerry had her hand on the door to the homicide division when
it opened from the inside. Captain Charlie Holloman came out and nearly knocked
her down. Lieutenant Barker served as Holloman's assistant and the captain
answered to the Executive Assistant Chief (EAC) and Coordinator of Operations
who had a direct line to the Chief of Police C. J. Bradley. EAC’s of
Administration and Support, as well as Professional Standards, also advised
Chief Bradley. Gerry seldom had contact with any of the hierarchy of the
organization and backed away from Captain Holloman in respect and awe.

"Good Morning," Holloman nodded as he brushed by
her and headed down the hall toward Criminal Investigations Command. Gerry
watched him for a few strides before she entered the lieutenant's office

"Good morning, Officer Gardner," Sheridan Barker
offered without looking up from an open file folder on her desk.

"Mornin' Loo."

"Understand we had another murder last night."

"That's right. Another comedian. A woman this time,
same MO. No immediate trace evidence, and the lab isn't expecting to learn much
this time either,"

Barker looked up. "Another comedian?"

"Yes. An out-of-towner, not a regular."

The door opened, and a clerk brought in the early edition of
the Chronicle. Barker grabbed it and scanned the front page. She held it up so
Gerry could see, and pointed to an entry along the left side that indicated a
story on the inside of Section A. "Another Clown Found Slaughtered."
"Not front page headline, yet," she commented. Gerry waited for the
Lieutenant to find the article and give it a quick read.

"They don't have anything but the fundamentals, but I'd
be surprised if reporters didn't start sniffing around for more info. The clown
suit shtick is too lurid to be hidden much longer."

"I'm surprised we haven't been getting calls
already," Gerry agreed, more to fill in the conversation than to make a
point.

"Bring me up to date, Detective."

Gerry told the Lieutenant about the investigation. Barker
stared at her intensely, giving the story her full attention.

When Gerry finished, she asked, "Are you two still
convinced it's a serial killer?"

"I can't say how Frank is looking at it now. We haven't
had a chance to see all the lab work and talk it through, but I'm thinking
no."

"Why not?"

"None of the usual trademarks. The victims have little
in common other than the connection to the comedy clubs. Gender is different.
One was a star, the other a flop. The first had a drug stash planted on him,
the girl was decked out with a bag full of juggling stuff. I think that's a
message."

"What message?"

"I don't know yet."

"Message for whom?"

"For Frank is my guess."

Barker looked down at the desk, apparently considering
Gerry's suggestions. When she looked up, she changed the subject from the
investigation to Frank.

"What are your impressions of Detective Rivers so
far?"

Gerry didn't like the line of questioning. She had sensed
earlier that Sumbitch either didn't trust Frank or wanted to hang something on
him.

"He's a first-rate investigator with dedication to his
job."

"I've heard he lets his personal life interfere. That
true?"

"I don't think so. Lieutenant, are you trying to turn
me as your FA?"

Barker suddenly decided she needed to rearrange the
newspaper on her desk, caught herself and glared at Gerry.

"No, Detective. If I needed a field associate to spy on
anybody, I'd tell him or her, his or her job up front. I didn't assign you as a
spy, but I did hope that you'd help me assess your partner and one of my
detectives."

"He's top drawer. Period."

The two women stared at each other, probing for the other's
thoughts. Barker broke the face off first.

"Okay, Detective Gardner. Thank you for coming
by."